Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (12 page)

“Yeah, you have fun?”

“Fun? Sure, I had a lot of fun. The perfect ending
to the perfect season. It starts with me not making the A team. It continues
with me taking four whole shots in twelve games.”

“But, honey, that’s not the point of—”

“What did you call for?”

“I told you, to see how you’re doing. Listen,
Tommy. You’re going to have to deal with this. So you’re not the world’s
greatest basketball player. There’s a lot worse things—”

“I don’t give a crap about the basketball, Mom. I
know I suck. It’s just, they could’ve given me one of those shitty trophies—”

“All right, that’s it. You have the right to
remain silent—”

“Okay, okay. But they could have made one up
saying ‘Made the Other Team Feel Good When He Stepped on the Court’ or
something. Anything. Shit, they even gave one to the wheelchair kid who just
flaps his—”

“Tommy, you know what we agreed about referring to
Mike.” It came out harsh. I meant it to.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just if they could give—”

“It’s just nothing. You talk about him respectfully.
End of story.”

“Okay, okay.” His voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

I could feel his shame. I let it hang there for a
moment. “Well, you never know, brat. Maybe they ordered you an extra-small
trophy and it got tossed out with the packing peanuts.”

“Ha, ha. That’s hilarious.” But I could hear he
was trying to cover up a small laugh.

“So, is Angela all moved in?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Dad made me go over to John’s
for the weekend.”

“I understand. He didn’t want to make it any more
crazy for you than necessary.”

“Sure, this way I didn’t notice anything. I just
came down to breakfast and said ‘Good morning, Mom. We got any corn flakes?
Say, wait a minute. I thought you had brown hair, Mom. And weren’t you a little
taller? And didn’t your name used to be Karen? Wait: I think I figured it out.
You’re not my mom, are you? That’s right, you’re my dad’s new girlfriend.’”

“Okay, that’s enough. Look, this is hard for
everyone. Your father’s trying to do this the best way he can—”

“And he’s doing a really shitty job at it.”

“Honey, you’re gonna have to be patient.
Everyone’s just feeling their way along here. There’s no easy way to do these
things.”

“Duh.”

“You know your father loves you, wiseass, and you
know I love you, too.”

“And does Angela wuv me, too, Mommy? Does she,
Mommy? Does she?”

“I take that back. I used to love you. Then you
turned into an idiot teenager, and now I don’t love you anymore.”

“Oh, Mommy, you’re bweaking my wittle heart.”

“In fact, I happen to know Angela wanted to move
in with your father for quite some time, but she put it off for a while.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Well, she thought your father lived alone. So one
night she said to him, ‘Bruce, I’d love to move in with you, but unless you
have a really annoying fourteen-year-old boy—’”

“This is extremely funny.”

“‘A horribly obnoxious fourteen-year-old boy
living with you, the whole deal is off.’”

“Can you hear me laughing hysterically?”

“‘A foul-mouthed, moody, sucks-at-school,
couldn’t-sink-a-basketball-if-he-had-a-six-foot-step-ladder-and-twenty-minutes
…’”

“Well, it’s been great talking with you, Mom, as
always.”

“Get the point, twerp?”

“Yes, Mommy, I get the point.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Thanks for calling, Mom.”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye.”

I couldn’t even turn off the phone and get it back
in the charger before the tears came, all at once, screwing up my whole damn
face. I picked up my drink, but my hands were shaking so bad the JD was jumping
out of the glass. Slumping over on the couch, gasping for breath in long,
desolate sobs, I put the drink back on the end table. This was a first for me:
shaking too much to drink. Better learn how to do it. One more life skill to
put on my to-do list.

I thought, How am I doing? Shitty, thanks, and
you?

Chapter 5

I was forty-five minutes
late when I stumbled in and collapsed into my chair. I was still wearing my
coat, a muffler wrapped around my neck, my big leather shoulder bag hooked on
my shoulder, hanging over the side of the chair. I looked at my watch. “Shit,”
I said. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

I think he was looking at me funny. I thought I
looked pretty good, considering I was working on about three hours’ sleep,
having passed out the night before and not had time to shower or put on some
makeup and clean clothes. True, my hair was a little on the oily side, my eyes
a little bloodshot, and the pale grey bags under my eyes not so pale. I’m forty
two. I don’t bounce back as fast as I used to.

“Good morning,” Ryan said.

It took me a moment to focus on his face. “Good
morning,” I said, the words coming out fuzzy. I shook off my coat, leaving it
hanging limply on the back and arms of my chair. I didn’t realize my scarf was
still on. I dropped my bag to the floor. “You seen the chief out here this
morning?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Ryan said, his voice low.

“That’s good,” I said. “He’s the last thing I need
this morning.”

“You might want to hang up your coat, take your
scarf off, in case he wanders in.”

“Good idea. Thanks. Soon as I can get some coffee
and something to eat.” I tried to stand, but my scarf was caught up in my coat
and I fell back down into my chair. “Isn’t that how Isadora Duncan died?” I
said, unwrapping the scarf from my neck.

“Standing up out of a chair?” Ryan said. I don’t
think he knew who Isadora Duncan was.

“Something like that.” This time, I successfully
escaped from the chair. I walked slowly to the break room. A moment later, I
made it back to my desk with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a doughnut in my
hands. I looked at my chair, confused. “What the hell?” The coat and scarf had
disappeared.

“I hung ’em up,” Ryan said.

“Thanks,” I said, slumping back into my chair.

“Karen, we need to talk.”

He was looking at me. I raised my head and tried
to focus on his face. “Are you breaking up with me, Ryan?”

“I’m serious, Karen.”

“Not now,” I said, my palm on my forehead. “I had
kind of a shitty night. Just give me a chance to wake up, will ya?”

“That’s what I’m concerned about.”

“Just drop it.” I heard it come out sharp. I put
the doughnut down on my desk and looked up at him, my eyes burning. “What’s
your problem? That I’m late? That I need a couple minutes this morning to get
alert? You’re a concerned taxpayer who isn’t getting his money’s worth? You
want me to refund your taxes? What do you want? Five bucks? Ten? Just tell me
how much you want.” I was fishing through my bag, looking for my wallet.

I could feel another set of eyes on me. It was the
only other detective in the bullpen, an older guy named Campbell, looking over
at me, shaking his head. I turned back to Ryan. He was sitting back in his
chair, looking clouded and hurt. “Answer me, Ryan. What the hell do you want
from me?” I couldn’t let it drop.

“I tried to track down Timothy Sanders,” he said.

“What? Who?” I had no idea what he was talking
about.

“The founder of Soul Savers. The guy the
Archbishop was telling us about yesterday.” Ryan’s voice came out extra calm
and controlled.

“Yeah, Timothy Sanders, great.”

“I tried all kinds of directories for Waco,
Texas—”

“Listen, I know you’ve got everything all worked
out, with your perfect little wife and your perfect little daughter, and
another one who’s also gonna be perfect—”

His face was stony. “There’s six guys named
Timothy Sanders in Waco.”

“That doesn’t give you any goddamn right to butt
into my affairs. What are you—twenty-five? Twenty-eight years—”

“Then I called Soul Savers to confirm his phone
num—”

“And this so-called church you belong to, which,
no offense, but it’s really more like a cult. And let me give you some advice,
Brother Ryan. When they start passing around the Kool-Aid—”

“Soul Savers doesn’t know where Sanders is.”

I stopped talking. My eyes closed. I covered them
with my palms. My arms came down onto the desk, one hand on top of the other. I
felt my head sinking down onto my hands.

“Then I called the Archbishop’s office. There’s no
meeting or conference call set up with the members of the Board of Di—”

“Why don’t you just go fuck yourself.” I pushed
myself up out of my chair and walked over to the coat rack. I grabbed my coat
and scarf and walked out of the detectives’ bullpen, my coat knocking over a
metal trash can.

*  *  *

Ryan was working at his
desk. I heard Campbell clear his throat theatrically. Ryan looked up and saw me
walking over to my desk. I was walking at a normal pace, as if I’d pulled
myself together. When Ryan looked at me, I could tell he knew I’d been crying.

My voice was soft. “It’s almost noon. Want to head
out to lunch?” I looked him straight in the eye. He knew I wanted to talk about
what had happened.

“Where do you want to go?”

“You choose. Just not here, okay?” I said,
glancing over at Campbell.

“How about Romeo’s?” he said. It was an Italian
place within walking distance that makes veggie pies. They had old-fashioned
booths that would give us some privacy.

“Sounds good,” I said as Ryan walked over to get
his coat. We left headquarters by the front entrance, heading down Lombard
toward Romeo’s. The sky was a threatening grey, the wind pushing and pulling
the dirty clouds across the sky. The recent rain and sleet had stirred up the
soil, which had not yet frozen for the winter.

I could smell the earth in the little rectangles
where the trees were planted in the sidewalk. Candy wrappers and bits of
newspaper were caught in the metal grates encircling the trees. Was it always
crappy and dirty like this? With two garbage cans on every damn block downtown,
couldn’t we keep a patch of dirt five feet square from looking like a garbage
dump?

Luckily, there was enough traffic—semis, SUVs,
diesel pickups, construction vehicles—to make it impossible to talk. And with
the business people heading for the diners and the restaurants, we had to weave
through the sidewalk traffic. I was glad: it gave me time to think about what I
was going to say. I wasn’t coming up with much.

We made it to Romeo’s. The girl said, “Two for
lunch?”

“Can we have that booth in the back?” I said. She
nodded, grabbed two menus, and led us back. It was an old restaurant. In my
fourteen years in Rawlings, it had been a workingman’s bar, a crepe place that
lasted about three months, and a sandwich shop. In all its incarnations, it had
kept its slightly shabby look: a few wooden tables with mismatched chairs, a
bar area, and eight booths along the wall. The dark wood separating the booths,
a good inch thick, had been carved up by patrons for at least a half-century.

I looked at the various inscriptions surrounding
Ryan’s head. I wondered if Jenny was still reliable for a good time, and
whether Kim and Johnny were still in love—or still alive.

Ryan didn’t say anything as we looked at the
menus. I studied mine as if it was a final exam. I was still thinking about how
to begin the conversation when the server came over. “What can I get ya?”

“You go first, Ryan. I’m still thinking.”

“I’ll have the Veggie Delight, small, and a glass
of water.”

“I’d like the Louis Prima and an iced tea,” I
said.

“Will that be separate checks?”

“Yes,” Ryan said, “if you don’t mi—”

“No,” I said to the server, “give me the check.”
She nodded and walked away.

I looked up at Ryan. “Did you notice yours has a
dorky name: Veggie Delight? Mine has a cool name: Louis Prima.”

“Yeah, I did. Who’s Louis Prima, anyway?”

“I think he was some kind of bandleader in the
fifties. Worked in casinos. Kind of like Desi Arnaz.”

“Was he big and fat?” Ryan said, referring to the
pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and beef toppings on the pizza. I recognized the
criticism poking through his question, although I was the same one hundred and
ten pounds I had been in college. Good thing about drinking: you skip the
occasional meal.

“Don’t know,” I said, forcing a smile, trying real
hard to be an adult. “I don’t have a clear picture of him in my mind.”

We knew we would have ten or fifteen minutes
before the pizzas arrived. Ryan sat there, tracing the scratches on the wooden
table with his finger. I would just have to jump in. “Ryan,” I said. It was a
second before he looked up. “I’m sorry.” He looked at me, silently. “I don’t
know what happened.”

“Yes, you do.”

He wasn’t going to forgive me right away. “Yes, Ryan,
you’re right. I know exactly what happened.” He was still looking at me. “Last
night I drank a little too much.” His expression was grim. He reminded me of my
father, who was gone now. “I drank way too much.” He didn’t say anything, just
like my father. “I passed out. I didn’t hear my alarm.” I looked at him. “I’m
sorry.”

He sat there, looking directly into her eyes.
“You’re sorry you were late? Isn’t that something between you and the chief?”

“No, Ryan, I’m sorry about the things I said.”

“What gives you the right to criticize me because
I’ve got a family?” I could tell from his voice—each word coming out
distinctly, his voice low—that he was furious, that he had spent some time this
morning going over what he was going to say to me. “Why did you say I have a
perfect wife and a perfect kid? You’ve never even met them. Do you really think
everything in my life is perfect? You think I’m some sort of robot?

“Where do you get off saying my religion is a
cult? Do you even know anything about it? Or is it stupid because everything is
stupid that isn’t the way you do things? Like your way is really the smart way
to do things? You’ve got no friends, no boyfriend, no husband—your own kid
doesn’t even live with you. You drink yourself to sleep every night. And you’re
criticizing the way I live? Are you out of your mind?” He was breathing heavily
from trying to stay under control, to not shout at me.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, Ryan,” I said softly
and slowly. “I am out of my mind.” I closed my eyes but couldn’t stop the
tears. I sat there, my hands folded on the table, the tears, one right after
the other, running right down my cheeks. I knew you could never cry in front of
other cops because they would never let you forget it. But I didn’t care
anymore.

“I have a mind, Ryan, but it does not control my
thinking or my words or my actions.” Ryan’s expression had softened. “I can’t
do what you do. I can’t say meat is no good for me so I won’t eat meat. I can’t
say liquor is killing me so I won’t drink. I can’t … I can’t control myself.
The way you can. I just can’t. I don’t know … how to live.”

I wiped at my face, tried to pull myself together.
“When I said your family is perfect, don’t you see what I was saying? It is
perfect. I know it’s not really perfect. But your wife loves you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you love her, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your daughter, she’s healthy, right?”

Ryan looked ashamed. I could see the blood rising
to his face. “Yes, she’s healthy.”

“Ryan, that
is
perfect. I said it mean,
like I was being sarcastic or something, but look at me. Listen to me. I had
that. A wonderful husband, who thought I was the most terrific woman in the
world. And a beautiful, healthy boy, who thought … who thought I was the moon
and stars. I had that. I used to have that. And I miss it. I miss it so badly.
I was just being a shit, Ryan. That’s what happened. You come from a big
family, right, a bunch of brothers and sisters? Haven’t you ever seen that
happen?”

Ryan looked like he was struggling to stay
composed. “Yeah, I’ve seen it happen.”

“And maybe you’ve even done it to someone
yourself?” He closed his eyes and nodded. “That’s all it was, Ryan. I’m in
trouble. I know it. Big trouble. I want what you have, and I know I can’t have
it. So I got mad. I wasn’t thinking. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“You notice I didn’t order the Kool-Aid?”

I had forgotten about that crack I’d made. My God,
it was good to see a small smile on his face. It wasn’t his big grin, but I
would take anything at this point. “I don’t know anything about your church. I
don’t know anything about any church. It’s just part of my stupid problem.
Remember how you said my life would be simpler if I could believe in something?
Well, you’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“Did you ever believe in anything?”

“A long time ago. Santa Claus and the Easter
bunny. Then my husband and my son’s love for me. Then in my ability to take
care of myself.”

“And now?”

“Now, I don’t believe in anything. Or anyone.”

“Not even in yourself?”

I looked at him. “No.”

“Not even in God?”

“Especially not in God.”

The girl came with the pizzas on small aluminum
pans. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thanks,” I said, my hand up to my face to
cover the tears. The server didn’t seem to notice. She turned and left. We
started to eat our pizzas.

Ryan said, “How’s your Louis?”

“Good and greasy. How’s your Veggie Delight?”

“It’s fine.” He took another bite. “I’m going to
help you, Karen.”

I laughed. “You gonna tell me that God loves me?”

“No, I don’t have to tell you that. You already
know that.”

“You gonna tell me you love me?”

“No,” he said. “That wouldn’t be true. I’ve known
you less than a week. Plus, you were pretty crappy to me this morning. No,
you’re kind of a mess right now. I don’t love you. Maybe someday, but certainly
not now.”

“Oh, Lord, no. You gonna tell me to come to your
church?”